The Plunge

We’ve done it. While on vacation last week, we put a deposit on a house and have been approved.

That was fun, actually. We went from place to place, examining toilets, dark dungeons, steep stairs, and the proximity of the windows (don’t want that west sun beating in during summer). We finally found something we both like–a townhouse.

Three floors of blissful peace, nooks and crannies to hide in, a lovely tree-covered patio for my muse, and ten minutes from my sister-in-law. At about half of what we’re paying now in Maryland. Perfect, eh?

We drove the nine hours home, excited with our find, making plans along the way. Then the shit hit the fan. Do you have any idea what a person has to do in order to move to another state? The amount of paperwork is incredible, not to mention quitting jobs, finding replacements, changing addresses with a gazillion different companies, getting my kids OUT OF THE HOUSE and settled elsewhere. What? Did you think we were taking them with us?

Oh, no, no, no. It’s time to push the chicks out of the nest. Again.

We did this once before. They wouldn’t leave, so we left them. They had the whole huge house they grew up in, we rented a much smaller home about fifteen minutes away. Somehow, they found their way back, and moved into our attic bedrooms. -_-

So, we went out and rented an apartment for our son, only five minutes away from his job (he’d been driving an hour to work from our place). Mission accomplished. Now he shows up on Sundays with laundry in hand. Okay. That works. But no more. No home-cooked dinners and free laundry service for him. *sigh*

My daughter and her boyfriend (both working) searched for an apartment. Still can’t afford one around here with both salaries. So boyfriend’s parents insisted on her moving in with them—gave them their own ‘suite’ of rooms for a measly $800 a month; they’ll split the cost. Doable. This morning, I found out that the money his parents are collecting will go into a savings account and be presented to them when they finally get married. Nice.

Mission accomplished. Babies are safe and taken care of. But some little niggle at the back of my brain tells me that I’m the one who will be weeping all the way to Ohio next month. Maybe I’ll get my husband to drive. Yeah. That’s a plan.

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